


The Scars of Friendship

by SapphireNight



Series: Secrets and Revelations [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU series 3 (slight), Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Doctor John Watson, Flogging (implied), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Irene asking for help, Irene likes to make John uncomfortable!, Mild Humour, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Pre-Series 3, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Veiled S&M References, post reichenbach fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireNight/pseuds/SapphireNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two and a half years after Sherlock fell, John gets visited by an unexpected- impossible- patient. However, The Woman hasn't come for her own sake. She requires the doctor for a home visit. A home visit which John Watson will never forget. </p><p> </p><p>Pre/AU series 3. WARNING: Mentions of torture (post event- for hurt/comfort), and graphic descriptions of injuries (from a medical POV).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Unexpected Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> The reunion of Sherlock and John absolutely fascinates me- the reactions and interactions , as portrayed and brought to life so skilfully by these two fantastic actors, are quite brilliant- beautiful, and I wanted to explore that. Coupled with a fondness for hurt/comfort, scars, and post-torture reveal, this is one of the creations that has been floating around in my head as a result of that.
> 
> I can’t promise to update this frequently or regularly, and I don’t even have a full story in mind. Just a couple of context-less scenes. So this may just result in possibly little more than a two-shot, but I promise you- if I have something in my head, I will write it down and get it up for you in a matter of days. It may even blossom into a collection of short works surrounding these themes, but I promise that I will try and write whenever I have anything in my head.
> 
> For all of you fascinated by secrets and revelations surrounding the reunion-- keep reading. There may be more.
> 
> IMPORTANT / WARNINGS: Just a note, this story is pre-/AU series 3. It does also include mentions of torture injuries- just one moderately graphic reference in this chapter, but any following will have a significantly greater inclusion. This isn’t about obscene gore or torture vulgarity, it is purely an emotive tool. It has been written to induce the sort of angst that gets the hairs on the back of your neck standing to attention, not to sicken the stomach.

*~*~*

John gave a discreet cough, and removed his hand from the orifice it had been examining. He let his eyes loop to the ceiling as the middle-aged man in front of him turned over awkwardly and began pulling his trousers back up. There was a soft tinkle of the belt buckle as John removed the purple glove with a loud snap.

It had been two and a half years now, since Sherlock had done… what it was that he had done. Jumped. Fallen. Two and a half years… and John was now comfortably _bored._ Happily married, and suited to the suburban life- occasionally rescuing the neighbours junkie son from various perilous situations, but generally content in the situation that he found himself within.

God, he missed Sherlock. God, was he bored.

“Well, all seems to be fine, Mr Johnson. I wouldn’t think there’s anything to worry about. Of course give the receptionist a ring if you’re still experiencing problems in a week’s time, but I think that should be pretty unlikely. Maintain a well-balanced diet, good amount of fibre and your five-a-day, and, er, don’t forget to wash regularly down there. Okay, Mr Johnson, hope you’re feeling more comfortable soon. See you again; have a pleasant weekend.”

Mr Johnson nodded emphatically and left the room. John gave his hands an extra wash and sat back down at his desk with a sigh.

That was it, the end of the day. Two years, maintaining a ‘healthy’ nine to five job- plus the additional fifteen to forty minutes where the clinic _always_ overrun, and that was the end of the events for today’s surgery. Today’s adventures.

God he missed the old days.

He deposited his bag on the desk and shoved any necessary ‘homework’ within it, though he usually kept the amount of work he brought home with him to a minimum, and finally extricated a nice, large chocolate bar with relish.

This was the high point of the evening. Not chasing round London after elusive criminals, not working on the bloodiest and most savage of murders. Having a quiet night in with the missus and a sneaky chocolate bar. Tomorrow evening they had tickets for the touring production of Miss Saigon at Richmond Theatre. John Watson was domesticated. So far, he was still deciding whether he liked it.

There was a quiet knock on the door and the receptionist poked her head in through the narrow gap. John instantly felt his heart drop.

_Oh, no…_

She wasn’t, however, carrying any patient notes. Just a small post-it stuck to her middle finger.

 “Dr Watson, I’ve got one other for you, sorry. A ‘Mrs Norton’. She wants to ask a couple of quick questions about her husband. She’s concerned.”

John straightened up, twisting towards her as his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Her husband? Sally, I can’t diagnose by proxy. If she’s worried about him he should come in himself—”

“No, no, I think she just wants a quick chat, just to see if there is anything to be worried about so she can bug him to get a proper appointment if there is. She says she’ll only be a few minutes; came in specially at the end of your shift so as not to take away patient time.”

“No, she’s just taking up my own time now. How very kind of her.”

Sally gave a shrug, and gestured again at the door behind her.

“She’s here. A couple of minutes. She does look worried.” She reached out towards him with the post-it.

John signed, reaching forward to take it and brushing a clearing on his desk where he had unloaded his post-work sugary snack. He looked longingly at the wrapper as a second knock sounded at the door, a well-wrapped up woman being ushered in with her back to John as she thanked the receptionist. Her collar was still pulled up high against her ears. She sat down as the doctor gave one final eyeing to the chocolate bar sitting obscured under his paperwork.

 “Alright, Mrs- er, Norton. You said you had some concerns about your… husband…?”

He stopped dead, staring into the face of someone he thought- knew- to be long since deceased.

Irene Adler just smiled back at him expectantly.

John blinked. Blinked some more, and scratched at the furry growth at the base of his chin. Yes, he was trying out new styles again- it was Movember, and Mary had seemed… appreciative.

“You’re dead,” he said finally.

Irene smiled.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

John shook his head, disbelieving.

“No- no, I… Mycroft told me. You’re dead. You were killed in Pakistan. He bloody well made sure about it after last time.”

“Well, the Holmes brothers are so easily beguiled.”

“No…”

John cleared his throat loudly, his head twisting from side to side as if his collar was tight and uncomfortable.

“How the _hell_ did you get out of it, then. Because Mycroft made sure. He bloody well made sure. And no ‘medical examiner’ or ‘records keeper’ tricks this time- he oversaw the entire thing in person.”

Irene’s smile was tight, somehow melancholy.

 “Yes, well, I had help. And now I owe a favour.”

“You ‘had help’…” John murmured under his breath.

“Yes. And I do so hate to be in anybody’s debt.”

There were several moments of silence, as John’s fingers drummed against his armrest.

“Sherlock’s dead,” John said abruptly. “Two and a half years now. In case you haven’t heard the news.”

The Woman shifted in her seat, silent, before inclining her head.

“You have been wrong about that previously.”

John grimaced, his jaw locked.

“Not wrong now. I saw it, he—I was there. I took his pulse; buried him. He’s gone. He won’t come back just because you have.”

The Woman remained silent. John glanced away, rubbing at his face with the edge of his sleeve as he tried to retain his composure.

“What are you doing here, Irene? Why did you come?”

“I told you. I’m returning a favour.”

There was silence again. Irene unbuttoned her jacket and removed a small tablet from inside.

“I have a person within my care who requires help. Medical help, Doctor Watson, which I am unable to give him, despite my extensive abilities.”

John blinked at her, incredulously.

“You’re in possession of ‘medical abilities’? You’re not a doctor; you’re not even a nurse. You’re a—”

“I’m a dominatrix, John. And a good one. A certain understanding of human anatomy comes paramount, as well as the ability to sustain it being a prerequisite for doing the things that I do. In my line of work, certain medical skills are necessary for keeping the clientele alive and returning.”

John swallowed thickly (embarrassingly), and tried to keep his mind on track. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling as he fought to retain focus. Irene followed his gaze, her smile becoming debauched as his inclination for height began to give her the distinct impression of a fondness for… suspension.

 “So why come to me? Why not just take them to hospital? Or- no, let me guess,” John’s face blossomed into a keen smile. “That would break ‘confidentiality clauses’, I would imagine. Don’t want everyone knowing what they’ve been getting up to in their free time. Very secretive, I would imagine, your clientele.”

Irene stared at him squarely, her chest rising and falling softly as she took an elongated breath.

 “Generally. Yes.”

John smiled.

“Uh-huh. And this guy? Or, er, _gal_ …”

“He refused.”

John brought his hands up in a ‘there you are, then’ gesture.

“It’s not for the reasons you’re thinking of. Though hospitals generally don’t like tending to these sorts of injuries, they also get suspicious when dealing with dead men. People are called, files are flagged … Confidential information goes astray.’

John gave a curt nod, squaring his jaw, not at all comprehending and not about to let that that both either bother him or show.

“So I ask again. Why me? You’ve been successfully dead for three years, why expose yourself now? There must be plenty of other doctors you’ve befriended during that time to suite your needs. And when I say ‘befriended’…”

“You’re being delicate, yes. You do have a fondness for decency, don’t you?”

John remained silent.

“He insisted. My hands were tied.” Irene said , eyes widening playfully.

John coughed.

“Such a stressful profession, being a doctor. High risk, life and death.”

“Being a GP generally isn’t _that_ stressful…” John muttered.

“You’d be surprised by the number of your colleagues who require a little _unwinding_ at the end of a taxing week. You’re not the only one who takes care of the needs of others, John.”

John set his jaw squarely, clearing his throat and looking into the eyes of The Woman. He knew she was only attempting to unsettle him even further. Didn’t mean it wasn’t working though.

“This patient? You came to me for a reason…”

Irene rolled her shoulders, seeming to go business-like as she swiped her fingers across the small tablet-PC in her hand. She wasn’t playing games anymore.

“First of all, I must impress upon you that this isn’t my handiwork. This has _nothing_ to do with any of my… skills.”

John looked unimpressed.

“Uh-huh. I’m staggered you’re actually concerned about what I think of you.”

“Call it professional pride, Doctor Watson. But this—this is not my doing.”

She handed him the tablet. John glanced at the displayed photograph and felt the lining of his stomach evaporate.

The sight before him was… horrific, in a word. Truly horrific. He couldn’t make out any discernable features; the angle showed mostly the figure’s back and side, but he could tell that the injuries before him were extensive. Strips of flesh hung in ribbons across his back, the wounds glossy as they attempted to heal. But first they would need to be… reconstructed. Repaired. Sewn back together.

“He has multiple lacerations and contusions,” The Woman begun, her voice cold and regulated as she began reciting her own observations. “His face is pretty messed up, but nothing serious there, that I can see. And no, the head injuries did not result in unconsciousness; I didn’t see the need to bring you a photograph of a facial beating. He didn’t sustain a concussion. But his back… I simply do not have the experience to care for such injuries. I know floggings very well, they are the bread and butter of what I do. But this isn’t anything akin to the sort of injuries I create. I’m ill-equipped, inexperienced. The damage is too extensive.”

John said nothing, studying the digital photographs with great intensity as he zoomed in and out, switching pictures and doing the same.

“I don’t do that. I don’t cause that level of damage. ”

John eventually looked up from the image, his face somehow greyer and more drawn than before.

“I still don’t understand, though. Why come to me? This is what you specialise in; you’re a dominatrix, this is what you do. You see pain and injury every day. I still don’t get what you’re doing here.”

Irene’s hand flicked out and snatched the tablet from John’s grasp.

“I am in the business of pleasure, Doctor Watson. Pain for pleasure’s sake, but pleasure none the less. What I do is _satisfying_ , not only to my clients but also to me. But this… There isn’t anything pleasurable about this. This isn’t pain for pleasure’s sake. This is pain for the sake of pain. Torture, for the fun of it. This wasn’t consentual. This wasn’t even for the extraction of information. They just liked to hear him scream. Any person would have cracked by this point; an interrogator would have put him out of his misery. Dumped the body. Instead… they just let him hang limp, and waited for the next imaginative torment to enter their minds.”

Irene looked down at the photographs once more. John felt as if he was for once seeing into the true depths of her.  

“This isn’t what I do.” She said softly. “This is… sick. Barbaric. Without purpose.”

John let out a silent sigh, shifting and scratching at the side of his neck.

“So why not put him out of his misery yourself? You’re not unfeeling, but I’ve seen that you’re also not adverse to the loss of human life. Why are you trying to patch him up at all?”

Irene drew herself up, her eyes suddenly penetratingly cold.

“For a doctor, you seem very quick to pull the trigger.”

“I’m not talking about me, Irene. I just don’t understand your concern for this guy.”

She fixed him with a long stare. John felt as if she were reaching into his soul.

 “Would you destroy the greatest mind you have ever known, just for a little bit of pain? The greatest intellect?  Pain is temporary, Doctor Watson; that is why my clients always return to me. It doesn’t last; bodies heal. So will he, given time. I may be callous, but even Sherlock knows I’m not that unfeeling.

“Now, are you going to help him or not?”

 

*~*~*


	2. An Unexpected Answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, I do apologise. I've been working on this chapter for nearly six weeks- quite ridiculous when you consider the first one was done in three days, but there you go. I can't promise when chapter three will be up, but I do have a few ideas, and it may or may not include how Irene actually found her patient in the first place.
> 
> Seeing as I missed this on the previous chapter, a little disclaimer. Ahum. If you think I am the creator and/or owner of 'Sherlock'/'Sherlock Holmes', then you are sadly very mistaken. Or clinically certifiable. That honour belongs to both Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and this more recent reincarnation to an incredibly brilliant team of TV film makers sharing their genius on the BBC. They are of course, headed by the brilliantly imaginative writers Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat, and brought to life by the intrinsically skilful actors Benedict Cumberbatch, Martin Freeman, and others including Lara Pulver as Irene Adler. I do not hold a claim to that skill or genius. Nor do I profit from it by posting these works. I only dream there.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

*~*~*

_“Would you destroy the greatest mind you have ever known, just for a little bit of pain? The greatest intellect?  Pain is temporary, Doctor Watson; that is why my clients always return to me. It doesn’t last; bodies heal. So will he, given time. I may be callous, but even Sherlock knows I’m not that unfeeling._

_“Now, are you going to help him or not?”_

~*~

John felt the rigid, hard back of his seat pressing up against him. For a moment, his mind seemed to go blank, a lone solitary word filtering into his consciousness like a claxon, wiping everything else into oblivion.

_Sherlock_

_‘Even Sherlock knows…’_

But he didn’t. Sherlock had been dead for two and a half years, he didn’t know anything. John suddenly remembered just who exactly was sitting in front of him. The Woman. The only woman to have ever played Sherlock at his own game. The one who had fooled him completely for nearly nine months of their lives; to have taken on that clockwork spinning mind of his-- and have kept pace.            

_‘Even Sherlock knows…’_

Sherlock knew how skilful of a manipulator she was. He knew, in the end, just how she had played him. Had even marvelled at the majesty of her game.

_And he’s not here anymore._

_‘Sherlock knows…’_

No. Sherlock didn’t know anything. Sherlock was dead.

Irene was wrong. Her use of the present tense deeply unsettled John- and maybe it was because of that that the next word came tumbling from his mouth.

 “No.”

Irene drew back, dumbfounded.

“‘No’? You… _won’t_ help?”

“No.” John said, raising his eyebrows. He crossed his arms in front of him.

Irene blinked.

“But you’re a doctor. You help people!”

“I don’t need to help you.”

John’s voice was casually regulated. He kept his eyes locked on the other woman, his jaw squaring as he prepared his reply.

 “You think you can turn up here, after _four years_ being dead and simply play the ‘Sherlock Card’ and expect that I’m just gonna do what you tell me? No. Look around, Irene, Sherlock isn’t here. He’s gone, and you have absolutely no ties to me. I’m just a humble family doctor now.”

Irene put on her most alluring smirk.

“And if I tell you who it is?”

“I’d still be just as uninterested.” John said, arms crossed.

There was silence again. Stalemate.

“Come off it, Irene, we both know who you really are. You wouldn’t tell me his name no matter what you say. Because that’s what you do. The whole package; why people come to you. You’re the _soul of disgression_.”

Irene didn’t have a comeback for that.

John leaned forwards in his seat, his voice growing dark.

“This is your world, Irene. The flogging, torture… You say that this was not your doing, but this _is_ your world. Not mine. I don’t know-- and, to be _perfectly honest_ , I _don’t_ _care_ how this man got involved in all of it, but you sort it out yourself. I’m not interested.”

Irene looked back at him, frozen.

“You won’t-”

“No.”

She sat rigidly for a few moments, before jerkily rising to her feet, her tablet clutched tightly to her chest.

After another moment’s hesitation, she turned and finally walked out the door. Her mobile was already to her ear by the time it closed after her.

John sighed, glancing round at the empty room before turning his attention to the waiting chocolate bar on his desk. With another drawn out breath he brushed the things he had unpacked back into his bag, and with the Snickers bar in hand left the room.

Sally was waiting just outside, her coat and gloves already on as she hovered by the main door waiting to lock up. Irene was already gone. Unofficially, it was her job to make sure that he did actually leave in an evening. Whilst he wasn’t one to spend an all-nighter in the office, this area of the neighbourhood was right next to a rather dodgier one- but that’s what you get just outside central London. You never know what sort of nutters could come walking through your door. Not to mention all the murders the doctor had been involved in (in a consulting role) a few years back.

“Sorry, John, that was rather a little longer than the two minutes she had promised.”

And also the fact that John’s wife- the other practice receptionist, would Sally’s hide if he didn’t return home in good time at least four days a week.

He waved her off with a shrug.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m a doctor; if someone needs help…”

Sally nodded.

“Uh-huh. So you sorted her out then? Made an appointment for the husband?”

John looked away.

“No, it’s nothing that I can help with.”

“Oh,” Sally said, uncertainly. “Okay then.”

Without another word, John made an awkward farewell gesture to her, inclining his head and jutting his chin with a frown before walking off past her out the door.

And then stopped directly outside, staring at the most ridiculous sight on the street in front of him.  

“Oh, for goodness sake,” he murmured.

To any other person, it wouldn’t have looked anything out of the ordinary. But John had spent three years with Sherlock; he might not have had his level of intellect, but it had certainly sharpened his wits. And had made his occasional acquaintances rather more interesting.

Directly in front of him, not two metres from the surgery entrance, waited a sleek black Jaguar. A pretty young lady stood directly in front of it, vaguely familiar, and the silhouette of another just discernable through the darkened windows.

And, on the opposite side of the road, waited a _second_ black executive car, equally familiar with an equally recognisable young woman standing before it. Though she, however, wasglaring daggers at the back of the other’s head.

Upon John’s appearance the closer woman raised her eyebrows with a welcoming smirk. He studied her face carefully. Yep, definitely familiar. The other bent her head over her blackberry.

John sighed, looking between the two, trying to remember to which master each belonged to. And, more importantly, just who he wanted to visit least.

Purely because she was closer to him- and actually giving him the slightest bit of eye contact, John approached the nearer of the two ladies. She opened the car door for him. The other continued texting.

John however stayed put, crossing his arms at the invitation. They would have to try harder than that to convince him to get in. Hell, Mycroft had once even sent a chopper. It’d been three years; surely he could offer more than a pretty girl and a Jag to entice him.

Just as he was still debating whether to slide in, Sally emerged from behind, the scrape of keys bighting against the locks as she secured the surgery doors.

She turned, about to walk off, but faltered in surprise to see John about to enter an unknown car with an unknown, attractive woman. A scowl soon set in on her face, but she quickly realised he wasn’t paying her any notice. He was far more preoccupied by the presence of the other women, his displeasure obvious at their attention.

The young lady directly in front shifted her weight and cocked an eyebrow.

Sally stood silently, debating on whether to remind John of the fact that he was already married but something told her this wasn’t what it appeared. If gossip with the girls had enlightened her of anything, it was that John’s past was very complex. Ridiculously so. What with going to Afghanistan, and then working with that phoney detective, (the innocence of whom was still a matter of great debate no matter what the latest inquest had announced); running around London chasing phantom criminals- and then his suicide. Mary had said they were close, no matter the truth of things. John still believed in the innocence of his old friend. But what had happened- _everything_ that had happened, it had changed him.

John’s past was very complex. And yet, it appeared the way he dealt with things was rather… not so much. He seemed content to just stand there, arms crossed, daring the younger women in a game of glares until finally, the doctor let out a quietgroan.

“How long have they been there?” he mumbled to Sally.

“What?”

He nodded towards the women.

“Urm… I don’t know. A while, maybe.”

John squared his jaw, his eyes narrowing. Sally didn’t catch what he said under his breath, but it wasn’t simple pleasantries.

“John, would you please tell me what’s going on? Who are they?”

John didn’t reply. He mumbled a little more, his head bowed, before announcing;

“Mycroft can be very persuasive.”

He turned to look at Sally finally.

“He runs the government,” he deadpanned. “Apparently, they sent a car.”

Her eyes widened.

“Was that who—”

“No…” John replied shortly, rocking on his feet, his eyes pointedly scouring the pavement before flicking upwards again. “Irene- the woman who was here earlier, she… generally works for herself, mostly. When she isn’t trying to bring down the government.” He trailed off.

“Mycroft, through… He was Sherlock’s brother. He likes checking up on me. Unannounced. At random, inconvenient times.”

“Sorry- what?”

John frowned. “You know, I think Sherlock must have rubbed off on my somewhat. I feel inclined to go with her _solely_ to avoid another audience with Mycroft.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “My, Sherlock would have been proud.”

Sally still looked baffled.

John cleared his throat; the receptionist still trying to piece things together.

“Er-- If you could just let Mary know that I’m not going to be home for a while… God knows how long this’ll take. Tell her it’s nothing to worry about… just a face from my past rearing their ugly head.” He paused, giving an exaggerated sigh. “It appears the doctor’s going to be making a house call,” he announced with marked distain.

Sally, however, seemed to have regained her senses at this.

“I’m sorry- what? Why can’t you phone her yourself? You really expect me to make excuses to your wife after you’ve gone off with another woman?”

 “Well, If I do it, I’ll just get an earful. Considering I’m already getting a headache just from these two both showing up out of the blue, I’d rather not give myself a full blown migraine trying to explain it all to Mary. Because you know her- _she always wins_. And these guys _still_ haven’t learnt how to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

And with that, John finally slid into the back seat of the Jag, leaving Sally standing alone and confused on the pavement.

He glanced across to where Irene was already comfortably sitting beside him and chuckled humourlessly under his breath.

“You know, sooner or later you’re gonna have to learn what the word ‘no’ means.”

Irene smiled.

“What makes you think that it’s even in my vocabulary? My clients use safe-words, and I _never_ say ‘no’.”

John tilted his head, giving her a look.

“No, I don’t believe that. I just think you’re too obstinate to take notice.”

Irene turned away, smiling as the car pulled off.

“So, are you telling me you’re still uninterested, because I’m getting mixed messages.”

“Now, hold on. I’ve not committed to anything yet.”

Irene just blinked at him, eyes casually swivelling round the luxury car they were riding in. Her face glistened with self-satisfied mirth.

John cleared his throat, glancing out the window as they passed the other car.

“Well, if it gets me away from Mycroft trying to check up on me. He’s following me, you know. Again. Sending his car to summon me. I suppose that has something to do with you?”

Irene actually seemed to draw back, her bravado faltering.

 “I had hoped to do this without gaining his attention.”

“He is infuriating, isn’t he?”

Irene chuckled.

 “So, where are we headed? Or is that clandestine information?”

“No,” Irene smiled, turning to look straight ahead. “My house.”

John raised his head up, and brought it down to his chest in a sharp dramatic motion. _Right.._.

“No, we’re not...” He declared lightly.

“No?” Irene blinked, incredulous.

“No, we’re going to Bart’s first. If I’m to tend to this patient, then I’m going to need proper supplies. And God knows some decent narcotics.”

The Woman smiled, and the driver abruptly changed course towards St Bartholomew’s Hospital.

*~*~*

**Author's Note:**

> AN- Irene’s alias I’ve used here is ‘Mrs Norton’. In the original short story ‘Scandal in Bulgaria’ which the series two opener ‘Scandal in Belgravia’ was based upon, Irene gets married. The man she marries is Norton.


End file.
